I Almost Hurt Arthur—Until That Afternoon's Security Footage Told Me Otherwise.-4
A Cry for Help
Toby entered a silent house. Arthur slept. Marianne’s faint clinking drifted from the kitchen. I sat huddled in the sofa corner. He hung his coat, saw me. Approached quietly. "Toby." My voice scraped. He paused. "I need you to book someone for me." He sat across the sofa, three cushions between us. "Who?" I clasped my cold hands. "A therapist. Specializing in postpartum depression." Toby leaned forward. Held my gaze for five seconds. Nodded. "Okay. Name? Recommendations? Or ask Kate about hers?" "Anything. Quickly," I breathed. He pulled out his phone. Screen light illuminated his face. "Thursday, two PM. Dr. Elena, Maple Street. Reviews mention postpartum expertise. Okay?" I nodded twice. "Booking now." His warm hand covered mine on my knee.
The Difficult Confession
The appointment was set for three days later. I breathed shallowly. Marianne persisted, pacing with Arthur, humming. I’ve booked a doctor, I rehearsed silently, swallowing the words each time. The third night, after dinner, Arthur slept. Toby met my eyes and nodded. My water glass clunked loudly on the table. "Marianne." My voice cracked. She paused mid-wipe, turning. Her usual expression vanished. Frown lines gathered. "A specialist?" Her tone shifted—confusion laced with disapproval. "Why? Are you unwell?" Her face was an open question.
Silent Disapproval
Next morning, dressed to leave, Toby home from work. Marianne held Arthur in the living room rocker, rhythmically patting his back. My footsteps descended. She didn’t look up. I paused at the stairwell. "Marianne," I said, "I’m leaving." Her patting hand hesitated. Then resumed its steady beat. She gave a stiff nod. Her eyes stayed fixed on Arthur. No questions. No well-wishes. Lips pressed thin, I turned. Grabbed the cold brass door handle. Turned. Pulled. Wind slapped my face. I stepped out, closing the door firmly behind me. The lock clicked. Snap. Silence reigned.
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Toby entered a silent house. Arthur slept. Marianne’s faint clinking drifted from the kitchen. I sat huddled in the sofa corner. He hung his coat, saw me. Approached quietly. "Toby." My voice scraped. He paused. "I need you to book someone for me." He sat across the sofa, three cushions between us. "Who?" I clasped my cold hands. "A therapist. Specializing in postpartum depression." Toby leaned forward. Held my gaze for five seconds. Nodded. "Okay. Name? Recommendations? Or ask Kate about hers?" "Anything. Quickly," I breathed. He pulled out his phone. Screen light illuminated his face. "Thursday, two PM. Dr. Elena, Maple Street. Reviews mention postpartum expertise. Okay?" I nodded twice. "Booking now." His warm hand covered mine on my knee.
The Difficult Confession
The appointment was set for three days later. I breathed shallowly. Marianne persisted, pacing with Arthur, humming. I’ve booked a doctor, I rehearsed silently, swallowing the words each time. The third night, after dinner, Arthur slept. Toby met my eyes and nodded. My water glass clunked loudly on the table. "Marianne." My voice cracked. She paused mid-wipe, turning. Her usual expression vanished. Frown lines gathered. "A specialist?" Her tone shifted—confusion laced with disapproval. "Why? Are you unwell?" Her face was an open question.
Silent Disapproval
Next morning, dressed to leave, Toby home from work. Marianne held Arthur in the living room rocker, rhythmically patting his back. My footsteps descended. She didn’t look up. I paused at the stairwell. "Marianne," I said, "I’m leaving." Her patting hand hesitated. Then resumed its steady beat. She gave a stiff nod. Her eyes stayed fixed on Arthur. No questions. No well-wishes. Lips pressed thin, I turned. Grabbed the cold brass door handle. Turned. Pulled. Wind slapped my face. I stepped out, closing the door firmly behind me. The lock clicked. Snap. Silence reigned.
NEXT >>